#comedy romance

You’re just a hardworking government employee. You file reports. You handle logistics. You are innocent.

(But Admiral Kuzan? He’s about to enter the fight of his life.)

You nod politely at the Marines in the hallway. You adjust your clipboard. You walk into the shared briefing room as if it’s any other Tuesday. You do this weekly because the Admirals are liable to ignore reports unless delivered in person.

You offer Admiral Aokiji, the single most important person in the room, a friendly smile when he glances up from his seat.

That is your first mistake.

He doesn’t smile back. 

He just kind of… stares. 

And blinks once. Slowly.

Like he’s buffering.

The room continues on, oblivious: chairs scrape, boots click, papers shuffle. And yet there he is, frozen mid-turn, gaze fixed like you’ve committed a war crime with cotton and underwire.

You clear your throat. You shuffle your notes. You remind yourself you are a professional.

“Good morning.”

Your voice is polite. Neutral. Absolutely free of criminal intent.

He blinks again, delayed, as if rejoining reality by sheer force of will. “…Morning.”

Except it doesn’t sound like morning. It sounds like a man just got punched in the brain.

“Admiral Aokiji,” you say, polite as ever. “The shipping office needs you to sign off on the schedule for Marineford.”

Nothing.

You pause. Maybe he didn’t hear you?

You shift your weight a little. You hold the clipboard out farther.

You lean over the table.

This is your second mistake.

Because his gaze; traitorous, impossible, criminally obvious—drops. Not far. Just enough. Like gravity itself betrayed him. Like he never learned about the social construct of eye contact.

The silence stretches. You can hear someone at the far end of the room clearing their throat, another Marine rifling through paperwork, the faint tick of the wall clock. Normal sounds. Ordinary.

But between you and him? Tension thick enough to strangle.

You glance down at the papers in your hand. That’s all this is. A routine report. Ink and logistics. Fuel shipments, dock space, supply counts. Nothing scandalous. Nothing treasonous.

So why does it feel like you’ve just dropped live ordinance in the middle of the briefing table?

You straighten, clipboard still in hand, forcing a professional smile. “Sir?”

He twitches.

Not dramatically. Just a slight, microscopic flinch. Like someone shoved a memory of motorboating directly into his cerebral cortex, and now he has to physically resist the urge to combust.

Kuzan exhales. It’s slow, uneven, like a man trying not to drown. His hand finally moves, reaching for the pen beside him.

Only he doesn’t sign. Not yet. His fingers hover over the page, stalling, like even the act of putting pen to paper requires a full internal reboot.

And you, blissfully unaware of the war you’ve just sparked in his bloodstream, wait patiently.

You frown. “Sir?”

He doesn’t respond with words.

He just picks up his coffee and misses his mouth by a full inch.

You stare.

“…Are you alright?”

He nods. A little too fast. A little too hard.

“Yeah. Yeah. Just, uh. Processing.”

Processing what? The tax report? The manifest? 

Or the titties, Admiral?

You don’t say that, obviously. You are a professional. You have decorum. You do not let the admiral know that his eye has been flicking, rapidly, between your face and your chest like he’s running internal diagnostics on his will to live.

His gaze darts anywhere but you; the ceiling, the wall, the paper in front of him, a potted plant in the corner, like it might offer backup. He scribbles something that could generously be called a signature, though it looks more like the work of a toddler on a sugar high.

You take the clipboard back, scanning the page.

“…This says ‘ice.’”

Kuzan freezes.

“…Does it?”

“Yes.” You tilt the board toward him. “In block letters. Just… ‘ice.’”

He blinks once, slowly, as if daring reality to correct itself. You have no idea whether he’s joking or actually suffered some kind of small stroke in front of you.

He finally takes the clipboard from your hand with two fingers, like it might explode. He tries to signs his name, and it’s a mess.

“…That should cover it.”

“Great, thanks.”

“Yup.”

He looks constipated.

You’re vaguely concerned. “You sure you’re okay?”

“…Yup.”

You watch him breathe with robotic precision, his movements stiff, mechanical, like a man piloting his own body from somewhere very far away.

You consider suggesting he get some rest. Or water. Or therapy.

Instead, you just say, “Let me know if you need anything else.”

His jaw shifts, a muscle ticking like a warning light. “…Sure. Anything.”

The way he says it—tight, strained, almost reverent—doesn’t match the context. At all.

You nod politely, smile, and turn to leave. Because to you, this is Tuesday. Paperwork. Schedules. Logistics.

Behind you, though? Admiral Kuzan leans back in his chair, pinches the bridge of his nose, and wonders if anyone has ever actually died from professional arousal.

Then you turn. And walk out.

You don’t see him freeze the table. You don’t hear him mutter a low, broken, “...Bozongas,” into his lukewarm coffee, as if it betrayed him. You don’t realize you’ve just become the unsanctioned reason an admiral is about to self-report to HR.

You just think he’s weird. And that maybe the heater is broken.

Because, honestly? It got freezing cold in there.

-X-

Kuzan would relay a much different memory of this event.

You walk into the room, completely unaware of the devastation you’re leaving in your wake—like a warship blessed by the titty gods.

Kuzan looks up once. 

Just once.

And never recovers.

“Oh no,” his brain says calmly, as his coffee tilts out of his hand in slow motion. “Oh no,” it repeats as you lean over to adjust a file. “Oh no,” As your shirt dips.

It is not, unfortunately, a whisper of warning.

It is the sound of despair.

He knows better. He’s been better.

He is Fleet Admiral material, dammit. He has survived war, loss, bureaucracy, the Grand Line, and Garp with a pan in his hand.

But you.

You walk in with your criminally majestic chest and your blissfully oblivious attitude and the way you go, “Admiral, did you review the incident report yet?” At the same time, the upper hemisphere of your body threatens to take over global governance, and your tits are the final boss.

He sits very, very still.

You think he’s ignoring you.

In reality, he’s locked in a mental Cold War with himself.

He is this close to sliding to the floor and whispering “boobies” like a man in mourning.

He has stopped hearing words. He’s spiritually astral projecting into a cold shower that never ends. He’s filing an internal HR violation against himself.

You tilt your head.

“You okay?”

He slowly blinks.

 “…Yup.”

He is not. 

He is in the trenches of Tittygeddon and losing.

Hours later, he is still in that same chair, spiraling hard. He very gently picks up his coffee mug, now empty and sad, and whispers, “I want to squish them… just once.”

Then he sighs.

Because he knows that’s how wars start.

Thursday arrived with a buzz of too much caffeine and not enough planning. The main studio smelled faintly of hairspray, foam latex, and impending chaos. You stood just outside the taped-off stunt zone, flipping through your clipboard while the crew unboxed props that should absolutely not have been labeled “mildly flammable.”

Behind you, Selina groaned. “He’s doing the mime bit?”

You didn’t look up. “He said it came to him in a dream. Something about betrayal and wind resistance.”

“Wind resistance?”

You turned the page. “I stopped asking for clarification around the time he brought in the inflatable swordfish.”

Before she could respond, footsteps thundered in from the hallway—and Spencer burst in like a sentient exclamation point.

He was wearing a black-and-white striped shirt, suspenders, fingerless gloves, and—a football helmet?

Everyone paused. Shayne, across the room, yelled, “Place your bets, people. Ten bucks says he ends up taped to something.”

You stared at him. “Spencer. What’s with the helmet?”

He struck a pose. “Safety. Mime-related injuries are on the rise.”

Shayne walked by mid-conversation. “You googling ‘mime injuries’ again?”

“Absolutely not,” Spencer said. “This is anecdotal research. Very prestigious.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You’re not actually throwing yourself off the set again, right?”

“Not again, no,” he said solemnly. “This time there’s emotional depth.”

“…Because the mime is… what? Ghosted by an imaginary girlfriend?”

“No,” he said, affronted. “By an imaginary rope. Which snaps during his climactic ascent. It’s a metaphor for unspoken expectations in emotionally codependent relationships.”

Selina, already tired, slowly sat down on a crate.

You gave Spencer a long look and sighed. “Alright. Let’s mic you up.”

As you clipped the mic to his shirt, Spencer stilled. Unusually quiet. For a moment, you were very aware of the fact that everyone else had moved on to prepping props, and it was just the two of you in this odd little bubble of hushed absurdity.

“You know,” he said, voice lower than usual, “I appreciate that you always let me… do this.”

You glanced up. “Do what?”

“This,” he repeated, gesturing vaguely to his entire outfit. “The weirdness. Most people try to sand me down.”

You hesitated. “I mean… I definitely keep sandpaper in my bag.”

“But you let me be weird first,” he said. “That counts for something.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So instead, you stepped back, clearing your throat as the spell broke.

“Well,” you said lightly, “just don’t make me fill out another incident report. HR’s already flagged your name.”

“That’s just ‘cause I tried to crowd-surf on a rolling chair.”

“And because you spilled glitter in the server room.”

He shrugged. “Again, metaphor. Corporate sparkle. Very edgy.”

Before you could reply, Courtney passed by with a clipboard and did a full double-take at Spencer’s helmet. “Are we about to film or launch him into space?”

“I’m ascending emotionally,” Spencer offered helpfully.

Courtney kept walking. “Great. Someone warn Shane.”

Spencer was now pacing the padded corner of the set like a boxer preparing for an emotional silent match. The football helmet had been dramatically tossed aside, replaced with a black beret he had produced from his back pocket like a magician unveiling a dove.

You didn’t ask.

The set had been rearranged to mimic a minimalist stage: a stool, a painted cardboard “wall,” and the crash mat, angled slightly off-center despite your repeated notes to the contrary.

You made a mental note: Page 7 of the Survival Guide—Never let Spencer place his own mats.

“Rolling in 3… 2…” Selina called.

The room fell quiet.

And Spencer? He transformed.

Gone was the gremlin who wore prop mustaches in serious meetings and narrated his lunch breaks like National Geographic. In his place was a mime—fully committed, expressive, almost graceful.

He started with the wind: staggering sideways as if caught in a storm, arms flailing with exaggerated resistance. The crew giggled.

Then came the invisible rope: a tug-of-war, his face twisting in betrayal as he “climbed” hand-over-hand. His expression shifted from hope to heartbreak as the imaginary rope “snapped,” flinging him backward.

And that’s when it happened.

He launched himself into the fall with more force than you’d prepped for—feet lifting clean off the floor as he flung his body backward toward the crash mat.

But something was wrong. The angle was off. The momentum too high.

“Spencer—!”

THUD.

He hit the mat—sort of. More accurately, he hit the edge of it, rolled halfway off, and collapsed in a tangle of limbs and drama on the studio floor.

Silence.

You were already moving.

Several crew members flinched. Shayne instinctively took a step forward, but you beat him there, sliding to your knees beside Spencer as he blinked up at the ceiling with the dazed look of someone seeing their ancestors in the studio lights.

“Spencer,” you said, crouching beside him, “talk to me. Are you—?”

He groaned dramatically. “I’ve been betrayed.”

“By gravity?”

“By art,” he whispered.

You reached out, gently pressing his elbow where he’d landed hardest. He hissed.

“That’s gonna bruise,” you muttered. “How’s your head?”

“Swelled with inspiration.”

You snorted despite yourself. “Good. No concussion.”

He blinked, turning his head toward you, his voice dropping just slightly. “You always this fast to catch a fall?”

You rolled your eyes, but your hand didn’t leave his arm. “You always this bad at spatial awareness?”

“I was making a point.”

“The point was the floor.”

“That’s… fair.”

You let out a breath and sat back slightly, realizing the entire crew was still standing silently, watching the aftermath like it was theater.

And then—like someone had hit unpause—chaos resumed.

“Okay, well that’s definitely going in the blooper reel,” Damien said from behind the camera, pulling out his phone to record the scene from a different angle. “Spencer yeeting himself into oblivion? Gold.”

Shayne leaned over from the lighting setup, hand shielding his mouth as he stage-whispered to Olivia, “Do you think this is the part where she finally admits she likes him?”

Olivia didn’t whisper back. “Oh, she’s so gone. She practically tackled him like a football player. It was romantic.”

“I was performing a wellness check!” you shouted without turning around.

Courtney appeared next to you like they’d been summoned by the drama. “Sure. And I only wear glitter eyeliner to feel emotionally grounded.”

Selina, arms crossed, grinned from the crash mat. “I’m just saying, if anyone else tried to swan-dive into the abyss, they’d get a lecture. Spencer does it, and you’re suddenly Florence Nightingale.”

You stood, brushing off your jeans, trying not to look directly at Spencer—who was still half-draped over the edge of the mat like he was posing for an emotionally complex perfume ad.

“Can we please get back to work?” you asked, already moving toward your headset.

Behind you, Spencer let out a dramatic sigh. “Truly, nothing hurts more than unrequited first aid.”

More laughter.

Someone wolf-whistled. Probably Tommy.

Shayne clapped twice. “Alright, everyone reset positions—and somebody bring Spencer a juice box before he starts monologuing again.”

As the crew slowly dispersed, still chuckling, Spencer reached for your hand to stand. You hesitated a beat… then helped him up.

The second your fingers touched, Shayne’s voice rang out from across the room: “IT’S HAPPENING.”

You let go like you’d touched a hot stove.

“Focus!” you called. “Let’s roll this again before someone breaks something else.”

Spencer just smiled, unbothered. “She cares,” he mouthed behind your back.

You didn’t turn around.

But the stupid smile tugging at the corners of your mouth?

That one you couldn’t quite stop.

And for a moment, the studio—the lights, the foam props, the crew trying not to openly watch—faded to the background.

Until Selina yelled, “RESET IN TEN!” and someone dropped a boom pole.

You let go first.

He didn’t seem surprised.

Just smiled that same knowing smile as he limped toward the green room, calling over his shoulder, “Tell my story, will you?”

And you—clipboard in hand, pulse slightly elevated—called back, “Only if it ends with a safety warning.”

It was later in the afternoon, after the lights had dimmed and the crew had dispersed, when you found yourself tucked away in the editing bay—headphones on, cursor scrubbing through clips from the day’s shoot.

The mime's fall looked even more ridiculous in slow motion.

You paused it at the precise moment Spencer's limbs flailed midair like a cartoon character, mouth open in what could only be described as silent opera. You didn’t mean to laugh, but you did—just a short burst under your breath.

“That bad, huh?”

You startled, turning to find Spencer standing in the doorway with an ice pack rubber-banded to his elbow and a juice pouch in his hand. His helmet was gone, his hair a little flatter than usual.

You slipped off your headphones. “You’re not supposed to sneak up on people post-concussion.”

“I knocked,” he said. “Emotionally.”

You nodded toward the screen. “I was just reviewing the carnage.”

He stepped closer, craning his neck to peek at the paused frame. “Ah, yes. The fall of Icarus.”

“You missed the mat.”

“No mat can hold me.”

You rolled your eyes but clicked to the next take. A quiet passed between you, not awkward, just full.

Spencer leaned against the table beside you, eyes still on the screen, voice softer now.

“Hey. Real talk for a second?”

You turned slightly, cautious. “Okay…”

He looked down at the ice pack in his lap, as if the juice pouch had suddenly become incredibly interesting. “You’re always the first one running in when things go sideways. With me, especially.”

You blinked. “That’s literally in my job description.”

“Yeah, but you… care,” he said. “Even when I’m being an idiot.”

You paused. “You’re not always an idiot.”

He glanced at you, amused. “You hesitated.”

You smiled. “Because sometimes you’re also a menace.”

“Fair.”

The room dimmed slightly as the late afternoon sun slipped behind a cloud. You hadn’t realized how quiet the studio had gotten. How close he’d leaned.

“Just… thanks,” he said. “For today. For not laughing when I missed the mat.”

“I did laugh.”

“Yeah, but not right away. You gave me, like, five whole seconds of dignity. That’s huge.”

You turned to face him fully. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

Another beat passed. And then, “You okay?” you asked, surprising yourself.

Spencer tilted his head. “Didn’t I just say you’re the one always checking on me?”

“I mean it,” you said, softer. “You’ve been… quieter than usual today. Between the jokes.”

He looked at you for a long moment. “You ever have one of those days where you just… realize how lucky you are to do something stupid for a living with people who see you?”

You blinked. “That’s unexpectedly sincere.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Don’t worry. It won’t last.”

He stood, stretching his good arm over his head.

You expected him to walk out then, return to whatever bit he was cooking up for tomorrow. But he paused in the doorway.

“If I write something again,” he said, not quite looking at you, “maybe something quieter… would you read it first?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I would.”

He nodded back.

Then he gave you a crooked half-smile—the kind you hadn’t seen before. Not his usual grin. Something smaller. Realer.

“Cool,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”

And then he was gone.

You stared at the door for a moment longer, then turned back to your screen.

Paused at the frame where he fell.

Pressed play.

And smiled.

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📎 Requests and fic recs welcome!

You are a new employee at Dunder Mifflin Scranton.

Hired by Michael Scott as a new addition to the sales team, though… “hired” was a generous way to describe what you had experienced that day.

An interview with a man you were sure was on some sort of drugs, a handshake that lasted too long, and a laminated motivational quote he insisted you keep.

A quote by a man with, surprisingly, the exact same name as your interviewer, but it dawned on you pretty quickly that it was just… his quote.

It had only been a few weeks since you were let go from a rival paper company. You wouldn’t call it ‘ideal timing’, but you also wouldn’t call it ‘nothing’. Now finally… it was your first day.

🎥 (...)

The conference room smelled faintly like stale coffee and long lost hopes and dreams.

A great thing to smell basically first thing in the morning of your new life.

Michael stood at the front, hands clasped together.

“Alright everyone,” he said brightly. “Big day. Huge day. Possibly one of the biggest days in the history of days. Today we are welcoming a new member of our family!”

You sat near the end of the conference room, already feeling the eyes on you. A young man and Pam, who you had chatted to earlier by the reception, gave you a polite smile.

Another man in an offputting mustard yellow shirt, however, was not subtle.

He was staring at you like you had been personally delivered to Scranton via a suspicious government program.

Michael continued, “Corporate has informed me that our female representation in sales was… lacking.”

There was a pause from everyone.

A bigger man next to you muttered, “We have female salespeople?”

A woman, older than you, with cute round glasses, glanced oveer at him with raised eyebrows.

Michael pressed on. “So, in the spirit of equality, diversity, and… uh– paper!... we have hired you.”

He gestured dramatically at you.

“And also because corporate said we had to,” he added quickly, like it was a footnote he almost forgot.

You offered a small smile to everyone around you, “Hi.”

This was starting off great.. now you also were only hired because you were a woman.

Michael clapped. “She’s a team player already!”

The mustard yellow shirt man raised his hand immediately.

Michael pointed at him, “Yes, Dwight?”

“Is she certified in paper sales combat strategy?” Dwight asked seriously.

You blinked, “I’m sorry… what?”

Dwight leaned forward. “Because if not, she will be at a tactical disadvantage during quarterly negotiations.”

The man next to Pam coughed into his fist, clearly trying not to laugh.

Michael nodded solemnly, “ Mhm… mhm… excellent question. We will circle back to that.”

You had a feeling no one would circle back to that.

Michael continued, “Anyway! She comes to us from a rival company–”

“Former rival,” you corrected automatically.

Michael pointed at you with great enthusiasm “Former rival! Love that energy!”

From the corner of your eye you caught, or well… saw, Dwight just outright staring at you, eyes narrowed.

🎥 (...)

The camera cut to you sitting in the interview room.

“I didn’t exactly choose to leave my last job,” you said carefully. “Let’s just say… restructuring happened.”

You paused for a moment, “And by restructuring, I mean I was let go.”

“But honestly? This place seems… less stressful.” you tried to say with a soft smile.

🎥 (...)

Dwight sat perfectly upright, starring at the camera with unsettling intensity.

“She is a plant,” he said immediately.

“Corporate has done this before. They introduce attractive, seemingly harmless individuals into the environment to destabilize internal productivity, and then… bam! They switch out who doesn’t pass their test…”

He leaned slightly closer.

“I will be observing her.”

🎥 (...)

Your desk had been assigned opposite of Dwight and next to Jim, which already felt like a social experiment you didn’t want to take part of.

Jim leaned over almost immediately as you finally settled into your spot, “For the record, he thinks everyone is a spy at first.” he whispered.

You glanced toward Dwight, who was currently measuring your desk distance with what appeared to be a ruler he brought from home.

“That’s… reassuring,” you whispered back.

Jim smiled, “Give it a week. You’ll either be on his ‘approved list’ or his ‘watch list.’”

“What’s the difference?”

Jim looked at Dwight.

Then back at you.

“Honestly? Not much.”

Dwight suddenly looked up again.

Directly at you.

Like he could sense the conversation had involved him.

You held his gaze for a second longer than necessary.

He did not look away first.

🎥 (...)

“She is adapting quickly,” Dwight said, pushing the blinds of the interview room open with two fingers as he stared out at you

“That is either a sign of intelligence…or espionage training.”

─── ꒰ 🗄️ ꒱ ───

You had long since stopped taking him seriously. Not because he wasn’t capable of mass destruction—no, the problem was that he was way too awkward to be genuinely evil. Like last week, when he tried to steal a hotdog cart as a distraction but ended up tripping over a ketchup bottle and getting mustard all over himself. Or the time he tried to hijack a news broadcast, only to accidentally press the weather channel button instead.

And yet, despite all his antics, Sunghoon still insisted he was your archnemesis. It was kind of… cute.

“I assume you’re here to fight,” you sighed, stretching your arms as you got into a battle stance. “Let’s get this over with.”

Sunghoon’s expression flickered for a moment—was that hesitation? He shifted on his feet, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah. Fight. That’s what we’re doing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Unless you have something else planned?”

“No,” he blurted out way too fast. Then he coughed, trying to look serious again. “I mean—yes. I have the perfect plan.” He lifted his hand dramatically, but nothing happened.

A long silence stretched between you. Sunghoon lowered his arm slightly, glancing at you. “Uh. I forgot what it was.”

You groaned. “Oh my god.”

“Wait, wait, I have a backup plan!” He rummaged through his pockets before pulling out a small remote. “Now behold, HERO!” He pressed the button, and suddenly—a metal cage clunked down from above, trapping you inside.

You blinked. “What the hell?”

“Jokes on you! I stole your dog! Now I have the upper hand, HERO!” Sunghoon cackled, arms crossed triumphantly.

Except. One tiny issue.

“I don’t… have a dog.”

Sunghoon’s face froze. “Wait. Then whose dog did I steal?”

A distant barking sound echoed from the side of the rooftop, followed by the furious stomping of an angry old lady.

“THAT’S MY DOG, YOU IDIOT!” she screeched, waving a cane in the air.

Sunghoon turned just in time to see the old woman whack him over the head. “oh shit.” He yelped, immediately bolting away as she chased him down the stairs. You stood there, watching the scene unfold, trapped in the ridiculous cage, contemplating your life choices.

After chasing Sunghoon down, knocking him out, and handing him over to the authorities (who, at this point, were getting tired of his antics), you sat beside his holding cell, sipping your drink.

Sunghoon, now sitting on the bench inside his cell, stared at the ceiling, pouting.

“This is so embarrassing,” he muttered. “I am a disgrace to villains everywhere.”

You leaned back against the wall, shooting him a lazy smile. “At least you’re entertaining.”

He exhaled, rubbing his hands over his face before finally looking at you. “You know… this whole villain thing?” He gestured vaguely at his surroundings. “It kinda started as a joke.”

You tilted your head. “What do you mean?”

Sunghoon let out a dry laugh. “Back in college, you just… became a hero. It wasn’t even some big, dramatic thing. You helped someone, people started calling you one, and suddenly it stuck. It was effortless for you.” He hesitated. “And I… I wanted to get your attention.”

Your breath caught slightly. “Wait, so you—?”

“I thought if I became a hero too, we could fight together,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe you’d finally notice me. But I guess I botched it, because people didn’t call me a hero. They called me a villain. And instead of correcting them, I just… rolled with it. It was kind of… fun?”

Your heart twisted. “So this whole time—”

“Yeah.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not exactly how I pictured my life going, but hey, at least I get to annoy you for a living.”

Despite yourself, you laughed. A real, genuine laugh. Sunghoon’s eyes flickered with something unreadable before he grinned, his usual smugness returning. “See? I can still make you smile, even from jail.”

You sighed, shaking your head as you stood up. “Well… you’ve definitely got my attention now.”

Sunghoon blinked, then smirked. “Oh? So you admit it? You can’t resist me?”

You leaned down slightly, close enough that he sucked in a sharp breath. “I think you just like being chased by me.”

Sunghoon’s grin stretched wider as he leaned back against the wall, looking far too smug for someone in a holding cell. "Ohhh, you want me so bad. Just admit it, Y/N."